


“Never again will I be a woman’s woman. For I no longer am at all.”

by copingskillz



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, First Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intrusive Thoughts, Lesbians, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copingskillz/pseuds/copingskillz
Summary: I think I alternatively titled this "I tried to kill my lesbianism" when I first drafted it, a couple of years ago. It's better now.Constructive criticism would be so appreciated! I'm still figuring out how to write prose. Please enjoy :)





	“Never again will I be a woman’s woman. For I no longer am at all.”

On an overcast morning, I looked out of my window over the garden. There’s a bus stop at the edge of the wall there. I’ve lived in this house all my life, slept in this room, gazed out this window. But that morning, I saw a woman… New, never having seen her before. She wasn’t all that eye-catching, with a short bob of oak brown… of average height… merely unremarkable. However, she was garbed in a lovely pink coat; a fabric so pleasing to the eye, filling me with such contentment. The foundation of love of a sort.

I watched this woman. I do so little these days, and the ability to observe someone new was akin to a gift. She sat there, in the chill, waiting for her bus. The 14, as I later saw. But as I watched her, I took note of her mannerisms. She was quite jittery, seemingly beyond the effects of the cold. Her hands knew no home. Hair, face, neck, side pocket, beneath her seat… But these rotations, unnoticeable to all but a loyal and intent observer, grew more complex in certain conditions. The presence of women, particularly. She would quicken her pace as they came closer, stiffening as they passed- I saw her smile honestly to each of them- with her hands resuming their schedule as the women walked on. She stared at their backs as they journeyed beyond her, in what imagine was an affectionate longing. I recognized her immediately, and she was to be mine.

The week afterwards, I had been planning how to approach her in the right manner such as to make a good impression and quickly get closer to her. She sat at the stop each day, and each day I watched her with a heart full. She did very little besides look at the women and fidget. On a few occasions, she took notice of my garden, leaning her nose into the petals of blossoms growing along the fence: an English assortment. It was the lavender she seemed to be particularly fond of.

Catching her presence in the mornings fed my exponentially growing fascination with her, and my daily thoughts magnified her into my sole obsession and reason for living. Life had grown so cumbersome and worthless, so dreadfully lonely I was. But her… I could roll her about in my mind all day: how her hair must feel through my fingers, the ways in which our hands would fit together, how beautiful she would look as the first sight in morning’s light… Oh, how I toiled at what my first words to her should have been. I am a fool for words.

Then, the anxiety she gave me grew far too much to bear. I began losing sleep, and hours of wakefulness to fancies of her. All I could think of was her and when my chance would be to know her. I yearned. I yearned.

As it would be, I spent the night hours at the window. I would see myself on the bus stop’s bench, next to her; laughing, close, warm, happy… myself. I did not want to hide within this house any longer, I wanted not to hide my heart in the walls, I did not wish to starve my desire out of my soul. She is what I need, so I told myself. How selfish of me. Better for her that I would have starved myself.

I rose early one morning, if one could even call it morning. It was not by my own will that I awoke, perhaps some greater being planned this day for my blessing. The sun had not yet arrived, so I went out to the garden in search of peace of mind. The vegetables had all began to bolt, what with me confined to the innards of the house. The flowers were all doing well, withstanding the harsh night chills. My hardy girls. I sat on the wall, at the very edge of the flower bed. There was a moment that I cannot recall, as it sometimes happens that my memory misplaces slivers of events. I cannot guess what I had been thinking of before I was interrupted. She startled me. But, it was nothing compared to the stab of emotion I forced my heart to endure. Her eyes were on me, taking in however it was I looked. I forgot myself as I took in her face: those full brown eyes, their upturned almond shape, the soft pink of her lips, the way her face crinkled… in that smile! Right in front of me! That same smile those women were given? “Am I a woman to her?”, I thought.

I will not walk myself through the exchanges we shared. I obsessed over them while I had her and long after she left. But, I did have her; and she had me. In every way she had me. I was hers; and it was me, alive and living. There was no longer a need to rush to the windowsill first thing in the morning. With her beside me, I fell into the bliss of sleep and lay with her in that state ’til late in the afternoon. I will never forget the countless joys she gave me. My woman: to harvest flowers for, to hold tight and warm, to feed meals of love, to caress to sleep, and to touch. I touched her. I touched her hair, face, neck, side, legs. And she touched me in return. Our touch was sacrament. Her fingertips blessed me where I always thought I was defiled. Her hands found their home in mine.

My euphoria should have been endless! But my existence forever begs misfortune. And as it would be, I fell apart. Onto my knees. I prayed, for the visions that came at night to leave me be: glimpses of the gleam of a sharp knife; her breasts, soiled by my weapon; wounds twisted by my hands, (over and over again). And her blood; staining me, running into our sheets, our bed, our room, our home. I feared sleep; these terrors came nightly.

Like that first day with her, I awoke in the would-be mornings. Our sheets wet, but with my sweat and tears. I tried not to disturb her with my perturbations, but she knew. She would come close, each night, and hold me dear. I knew I loved her, and she loved me. So she said it was, and so it was; “I love you, come back to bed, it will all be okay.” I loved her… I loved her.

The nightmares plagued me for months. She was helpless to help me. I could never have told her what they were. She loved me, so she did not press. How did I ever deserve an angel such as she? But I loved her also, and I knew I was hurting her. I hurt her. I’m sorry. I love her. I hurt her. The monster of myself maimed my guardian angel.

I made myself disappear; for her. Gone from life, into spirithood. She was what I needed, even if without me; I required that her existence carry on. I cannot know the pain she felt afterwards. I did not wish to haunt her with a ghostly remembrance of the love she found in me. I hope I did not pain her more than the knife would have, no more than death would have brought. But I know it is a foolish thought. I love her. I hurt her. I will never dare to be near to her again. To her heart or her flesh.

Never again, will I be a woman’s woman. For I no longer am, at all.


End file.
